


A Warm Welcome

by Lou_Writes



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, I'm mad at Jon so I wrote this, Implied Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 17:19:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18480802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lou_Writes/pseuds/Lou_Writes
Summary: Sansa is used to being betrayed, but she never thought she'd be betrayed by him.Or, what happens after Sansa asks Jon if he bent the knee for love. (Picks up where that scene lets off).*Spoilers for S08E01*





	A Warm Welcome

**Author's Note:**

> The Jon/Sansa stuff is pretty secondary. I'm just angry at Jon for not realizing how important it is for Sansa to feel like her voice is heard, especially after he encouraged her to speak up for herself in season 6. This is my attempt to work through it.

_*_

_'Sometimes when I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What’s the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do?'_

 

Littlefinger had been—what was it that Arya said?—“a simpering maggot.”But he had been smart. And he had been right, much of the time. Sansa was just disappointed that he had been right about _this._

 

"Did you bend the knee to save the North, or because you love her?" 

 

Jon looked as if she’d slapped him. “I don’t love her,” he grumbled.

 

Sansa rolled her eyes, as much to clear the film of tears as to express her annoyance. “You’re not exactly subtle, Jon.” It broke her heart, to see them together, to see the Dragon Queen make Jon laugh the way Sansa could. The way Sansa thought _only_ she could. “Everyone in the castle knows you're lovers.”

 

“You don’t need to be in love to warm somebody’s bed, Sansa,” Jon shot back. Sansa felt her heart jump into her throat. As if the scars on her body weren’t living proof of that. But Jon, careless Jon, wasn’t thinking of her.

 

“I’m telling you the truth,” he said. “I don’t love Daenerys Targaryen.”

 

“Then why have you gotten us into this mess?”

 

“We need her dragons. We need her men.”

 

Sansa felt like tearing her hair out. “Do you know who will be blamed when the people begin to starve? Do you know whose head the bannermen will demand? Not yours, Jon. Not the Dragon Queen’s. _Mine._ Winterfell is my responsibility—the _North_ is my responsibility—and you’ve just made it twice as hard to protect.”

 

“We need to beat the dead.” Gods, but he was repetitive. He was like Ghost, howling at the moon night after night, voice never wavering, tone never changing.

 

“I know that!" Sansa responded, "But when the smallfolk die—who will be left to fight for? What will be the point? She’s valuable, Jon, I know she is—but does her value outweigh the costs?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sansa sat back in her chair. Hardly the behavior of the Lady of a great house, but Jon had a way of getting to her. “I love you, Jon. Arya loves you. Bran loves you, I’m sure, in his strange way. You are our family. But we need you to act like it. We must be a _pack_ , do you understand?”

 

Jon practically growled. “A pack protects its own. You attacking me in front of my men, in front of my _queen,_ doesn’t feel very much like protection.”

 

“They’re not your men anymore, though, are they?” Sansa snapped. She paused, softened, sighed. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had much sleep—I’ve been so worried about Daenerys, about you, about all of this. I wouldn’t challenge you if I didn’t trust you.”

 

“You trust me?” Jon scoffed. “You don’t act like it.”

 

“The fact that I challenge you is _proof_ that I trust you,” Sansa replied, suddenly angry again. She stood, knocking her chair over in the process. “I have been silenced my entire life. Every time I spoke out, every time I _dared_ do anything other than sit still and look pretty, I was punished. Joffrey beat me. Baelish sold me. Ramsay raped me. Do you think I offered _them_ my counsel? When we were together at Castle Black, it was the first time I felt as if a man cared about anything other than my name or my face. You say I think I’m smarter than everyone else (don’t deny it, Arya told me) but _you_ were the first person who made me feel smart _at all_. I don’t know what’s changed, but I won’t let you silence me again. I won’t let you take away the freedom _you_ gave me.

 

“And by the way,” she continued, barely stopping for breath, “Nobody thinks you’re weak. The fact that you can take criticism, even from your younger sister, makes you appear strong. Do you think Cersei allows anyone to contradict her? No, because she knows her power is tenuous. She surrounds herself with flatterers, and every day her people hate her more. You are—were—loved, Jon, for many reasons—but one of them is your ability to _listen_. Even to me. Even to a…silly girl who thinks she’s smarter than everybody else.” She paused. “Which isn’t true. I don’t think I’m smarter than everybody else. Although I do think you have behaved _tremendously_ short-sightedly.”

 

Jon was silent for a moment. Sansa feared he would leave without saying anything and she couldn’t bear that, not when he’d just gotten home, not when she’d missed him for so long.

 

“Once I’ve killed the Night King,” he began, “and the army of the dead has fallen, I will be…better to you. More patient. Kinder.” He lowered his voice and stepped towards her (she tried desperately to ignore the warmth in her tummy, the pesky sense of _What if?_ that stole over her every time she spoke to her half-brother). “If she lives, Daenerys will go South with her army and her dragons. I will not go with her.” He brought his hand to Sansa’s cheek, brushing away a stray lock of hair that lay against her pale skin like a Weirwood leaf in the snow. “I don’t love her. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. But right now, we need her.”

 

Sansa ignored the urge to lean into his palm. She had missed Jon’s little touches, the way he could make her feel safe with just a brush of his lips against her forehead. If she gave up the argument now, would he hold her in his arms like he'd done that day at Castle Black? Would it be worth it, to sacrifice her pride and her principles for just one moment of security?  _Yes,_ Sansa thought.  _Never,_ replied the Lady of Winterfell. 

 

Reluctantly, she pulled away.

 

“And taking her as a lover is what—insurance?”

 

Jon looked at his feet. “I—She wanted me, Sansa.”

 

“Am I supposed to believe she forced herself on you?” Sansa scoffed. “I've seen the way men look at her. The way  _you_ look at her.”

 

“What do you want me to say?” Jon replied, only half angry. 

 

“I want you to admit that you feel something for her!” Sansa's voice came out louder than she wanted. Both she and Jon froze and turned towards the door; but there was nothing, not even a whisper in the corridor. 

 

Quietly, Jon continued, “I am a man, Sansa, I—”

 

“Do not use that as an excuse,” Sansa hissed through her teeth, “Women feel attraction every bit as deeply as men do, and we don’t go around giving away kingdoms because of it!” 

 

“Well _maybe_ I’ve been feeling a little pent up!”

 

Sansa took a step back—they had gotten too close. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

 

Jon cleared his throat. “It’s—the stress,” he stammered. “The army of the dead. Winter. And—I’m not talking about this with you, Sansa. You’re my little sister, for Gods’-sake, what happens in my bed has _nothing to do with you_.”

 

“It does when it affects my people, _Jon_. Are you under the impression that I enjoy thinking about your...indiscretion? I would give  _anything_ to forget what you've done. To be able to look at you without feeling this...this sickness, this emptiness in the pit of my stomach." Jon's eyes were dark in the candlelight, almost black. He looked inhuman.  _Good_ , Sansa thought,  _it's easier to be angry with a monster._ She couldn't read his expression. 

 

"You're crying," he noted. Sansa brought her fingers to her cheek and felt the moisture there. She sniffed and wiped the tears away, raising her chin defiantly. Furiously attempting to control the quaver in her voice, she responded, "I didn't realize. But you misjudge me if you think my tears betray weakness. I am not a child having a tantrum, Jon. I am a Lady trying to keep her people safe." 

 

Jon was quiet for a long moment. "I do not think you weak for crying." He reached out and took Sansa's hand, the one she had just wet with her tears. He brought her palm up to his mouth and—Sansa's breath caught—kissed it.  _It's only Jon,_ she thought,  _it's only Jon trying to make me feel better. Playing pretend like he did when we were children._ "My loyalties are to the Starks," he murmured, dropping her hand, "To the North, and to the living. My bending the knee does not change that. My involvement with Daenerys does not change that. In fact, it changes nothing." 

 

Sansa nodded and blinked away the moisture on her lashes. Jon raised his arms uncertainly at his sides as if itching to fold her into them; after a moment, he stilled, thinking better of it. 

 

"Goodnight, Sansa," he said instead. "You should get some sleep. If you wish to sleep in tomorrow, I will handle your morning appointments. I brought the army, I'll figure out how to feed them." 

 

"That's alright," Sansa replied. "—But thank you," she added. Jon turned to leave. "Er—Jon?" 

 

"Yes?" Jon replied. 

 

"Will you walk me to my chambers? I sent Brienne away earlier and I—I think I will try to get an early night." Jon smiled, but there was something sad in it. 

 

"Of course. You're my sister, after all." 

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bad at endings please forgive me


End file.
